On a mission 

It’s six am, it’s cold and it’s dark and the wind outside is making an ominous noise. I awoke to a cascade of thought of all the things I need to do. Art, drawing, making and teaching heads all butting against each other. I am one person and here in a tiny bubble of light cast from my iPad I feel very alone. I think of everything that goes on around me, the ridiculous circle jerking of planning groups and meetings for things that never come to pass or worse when they do and they have that taint of grandiose egos butting up against each other. Or even worse than that the nauseating do gooders going to great length to rob the poor of their last shred of dignity from their own lack of ability to empathise and truly comprehend what it is to live with so little hope. 

There is nothing more tedious than the bored and unfulfilled middle class. There is also nothing harder to have to butt up against for someone like me, knowing how difficult  it is to compete on a playing field as angled as a mountain pass, of hobbiests, of the bored, of those with spare cash who’s idea of poverty is not having a holiday this year rather than to not eating. And then, to add insult to injury, they placade all that middle class guilt by patronising the likes of me, until you come to the table like I do and you start to see the shutters come down, the ranks close as they try and force you back in your box and if you don’t like it, then you are bitter, you have a chip on your shoulder.

Me, I am pure poison to people like that, I have read, I work my arse off and I refuse to be the amiable salt of the earth type. I will not play their game or use their set of rules.

So here I am, waiting for the day to begin, that leap out of bed and the mad dash for the loo, then the kitchen, then the tiny arc of heat from the halogen heater and start drawing, then making, then more of the same until tiredness and bed takes me again. 

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